Stille Nacht
by lithugraph
Summary: A/U: Paris, 1941 "His heart leapt into his throat. Who in their right mind thought it a good idea to play piano at eleven o'clock at night? Moreover, what was he going to do about it? Whoever it was, was breaking curfew..." Rated T for language, themes, and character death. Oneshot.
_**Stille Nacht**_

* * *

 **May, 1941**

Paris was supposed to have been an easy posting. But to a soldier as green as Ludwig, it was proving anything but.

One week here and he was already lost.

Didn't help that it was night.

And well past curfew.

Not a single light shone except for the stars. Ludwig cursed and ducked down an alley. He needed to calm himself down. He needed to get his bearings.

Oh he would surely throttle Willi and Helmut the moment he got back. He cursed their names as he dug in his pocket for a cigarette and a map. An initiation, they called it. And he had been stupid enough to go along with it.

Well.

How was he to know "initiation" meant being left at some dive bar by the docks and having to find a way back?

He doubly cursed their names when he realized he only had one cigarette left. They had smoked his goddamn pack in two hours. Ludwig held back a growl of frustration and cupped his hand over the burning ember. He crouched down between two rubbish bins and directed the orange glow to his map. He located the docks and reconstructed the path he had taken to determine his current location. He then found his command post and realized with a sinking feeling he was over a kilometer away.

Ludwig bit back another groan, wondering what his lieutenant would do if he found out, when he heard it. The soft tinkling of piano keys against the still night.

His heart leapt into his throat. Who in their right mind thought it a good idea to play piano at eleven o'clock at night? Moreover, what was _he_ going to do about it? Whoever it was, was breaking curfew...

Ludwig swallowed, straining his ears to locate the sound, when he realized it came from the building opposite. From the top garret flat. The building looked abandoned, but then again, most of them did at night. The window stood open against the humid night air, its black curtain ringed with a very thin, very dim halo of light.

Ludwig rose from his crouch. He had no rifle, but he did have his sidearm - one of the few things his older brother taught him. _Always carry it, Lutz._ _Even when you're off duty,_ Gilbert had said. His fingers brushed the leather holster, wondering what he should do.

He anxiously smoked away the minutes, listening to the song, stuck between duty and inaction, when he realized he recognized the piece. It was Mendelssohn. Not Debussy or Satie. Not the cafe jazz, but fucking Mendelssohn! The same piece his mother used to play...

Ludwig stood, listening in awe a few moments longer, his cigarette burning down to his finger tips. He dropped it with a wince of pain, the ember hissing out in the gutter. Ludwig stole a quick glance up at the window, suddenly afraid the mysterious piano player had heard.

The curtain fluttered in the breeze.

The music stopped.

Ludwig held his breath, unconsciously fingering his holster.

The light went out.

Ludwig nearly doubled over as he exhaled a chest of air. He rested a hand on his thigh to steady himself. His heart pounded between his ears, chasing out the beautiful sounds he had heard only moments ago.

Ludwig managed to collect himself and decided it was time to find his way back to his post.

.

 **November, 1941**

Paris was supposed to have been an easy posting.

Six months in and Ludwig felt quite certain this was the easiest job he'd ever had - not that he had much to compare it to. (Working summers as a clerk hardly counted when his father owned the firm.)

He spent the majority of his time typing reports or on guard duty at the command post, checking papers while Willi raised and lowered the barricade arm. When he wasn't on duty, he was either in and out of various cafes or roaming the streets with Willi and Helmut.

Paris was a whole other world when compared with the one he left. True his family was one of the luckier ones financially, so he hardly considered eating decent food a luxury. But he had been raised to sing Party songs and salute like all the other boys. Before working for his father, he spent his summers at camps for youth groups. Training and exercise and training and exercise.

Preparation.

Everything had been about preparation.

But Poland had fallen so quickly.

And now Paris.

What, then, was there left to conquer?

A disconnect began to form and grow in his mind. War was something that had already ransacked Paris while Ludwig was still in boot camp. War had already come and gone and would never come again to this city. Not while the Germans occupied it. _They_ owned it. It was theirs for keeps. The war for Paris had already been fought and won, just as surely as it was being fought and won elsewhere. If war was a wave, then Paris was the beach and the tide was going out. Nothing really left to do except wait. And wait.

In his letters home, he wrote of the cafes he and his friends visited. He talked about the food and how it could never compare to Mutti's cooking - he knew how much it would cheer her to read that. He wrote about the people of Paris and how they seemed to welcome the German army, noting every time he and Willi went out, the young women flocked to them while the old men nodded in deference. That was for his father's sake. He knew his father would grow weary of hearing about nothing except food. He wrote a few letters to Gilbert, too, but he could not escape the odd gnawing of guilt when he read over the empty words. Gilbert had been sent east in August. To Russia. Ludwig wondered when the first snow fell there. He meant to write and ask. He always imagined Russia covered in a permanent blanket of white, the coldness and damp permeating everything, even the paper, as he read Gilbert's letters. But each time Gilbert wrote, his letters seemed shorter and shorter until Ludwig could no longer hold onto that feeling of snow. Slowly, he felt his sense of his brother slipping away. He tried to keep his ennui to himself, tried to find as many interesting things to write about as possible, but it was difficult when his days consisted of clerical work, guard duty, and eating.

Day after day, he felt his listlessness growing.

His letters home were nothing like Gilbert's.

He never wrote about the night with the piano.

.

Action, action, action.

It was all the visiting brass ever talked about.

The action seen on this or that front.

Willi was all too eager to discuss it. Infectious enthusiasm. Meant they might finally be getting out of this stinking city and actually _do_ something for the Reich. Ludwig even found himself hoping, just maybe...

There was a group of soldiers on leave, eating lunch at one of the cafes Ludwig frequented. Willi eagerly chatted them up. Ludwig hung back and listened. And watched.

They were hardly over twenty yet they seemed much, much older. There was something about their faces. Indifference had aged them. Not the kind of indifference Ludwig buried every day, but something different. Born not from boredom and complacency but from helplessness and self-preservation. A strange and haunting mix. Ludwig wondered if his brother's face looked the same way and tried not to think about the fact the last time he had heard from Gilbert was at the end of September.

As they left the cafe, a man jostled by, almost knocking Ludwig to the ground. On his heels were two Vichy gendarmes. The man stumbled and fell. The gendarmes were on him in seconds, striking him with batons and hauling him to his feet.

"Resistance," one of them said.

Willi nodded his approval.

The gendarmes dragged the man off. His limp body hung from his shoulder sockets.

Ludwig stared dumbly on, his mind working to catch up with what had happened. Just five minutes ago, he had been finishing a nice lunch...

The faces of the soldiers seemed to make more sense.

.

 **December, 1941**

Gilbert was going to be home for Christmas. Mutti had written the moment she'd received word. Ludwig was on leave as well but had not yet told his parents or made up his mind about plans. Once he found out Gilbert was going to be there, however, he lied.

It was only the second time he had ever lied to his parents. The first was when his father found the cigarettes. Ludwig lied and said they must have been Gilbert's. Gilbert was away at boot camp at the time. His father muttered "That boy" under his breath and pocketed them.

Now here he was, lying again. It was easier, though, to do via telegraph. Less guilt. Ludwig didn't think he would be able to face his brother. He decided to stay in Paris, giving his leave to Willi, who hadn't been home in a year.

He wandered the streets by himself on nights he wasn't on duty, tempting the curfew, wondering just how far he could push it, and how many times he could sneak back without being caught.

It sent a thrill through him. One he didn't know he needed, or missed, until experienced.

Each night, he pushed a little further.

It was cold, made even more so by the breezes off the Seine. But Ludwig didn't mind. Hardly felt it as blood pumped through his chest, his legs, his head, pushing his muscles on and on as he searched the streets looking for something he could not quite name.

Until he found it. Down an alley. In _that_ arrondissement.

That sound.

Heard a few short months ago.

Seemed like another lifetime.

Yet here it was. The thing he had been looking for. Had been here the whole time. But he had not been ready then.

Now, he was.

Fingers slipped past buttons to brush the leather holster under his coat. The street was black. Empty.

Past curfew.

Mendelssohn echoed in the still air.

What was _he_ going to do about it?

His mouth grew wet.

He un-holstered his gun and pushed open the side door. Ludwig crept up the narrow, winding staircase feeling ever more certain this building was abandoned. He half wondered who was on the other side of the attic apartment's door, though a part of him knew the answer. _Stupid,_ he thought, _to give yourself away like that._

His fist pounded twice against the door before he was even fully aware of what he was doing.

The music stopped.

"This is a warning," Ludwig said, his voice calm and clear, though the hand holding the gun began to shake. "You are breaking curfew. Do it again and you will be arrested."

Ludwig held his breath, waiting for an answer.

When none came, he began backing towards the stairs.

The music began again.

Ludwig flew to the door, hand smacking against the wood.

"I told you to stop," he hissed. "I've already warned you..."

The playing continued.

"For God's sake, stop!"

His hand began to raise.

Restlessness.

Frustration.

He grit his teeth.

Aimed.

Fired.

Not once, but twice.

Bullets pierced through the door as thumbtacks through paper.

Ears ringing.

Panic.

The music finally stopped.

It took Ludwig a moment to gather his wits.

A scuffling sound came from the attic room. Then a whimper of pain and a plonking of piano keys.

Ludwig kicked in the door, absurdly afraid the music would start again.

He stood in the doorframe, pulse pounding in his neck and still not quite sure what he was seeing.

Stubs of candles scattered here and there provided the only light. Their small flames shone on what Ludwig wanted to see: a man, struggling to sit upright on a piano bench, a hand pressed to his side. The dark smear across the wood floor spoke of the impact. It had knocked him to the floor.

The man was skinny. Too skinny. When was the last time he had eaten?

Wireframe glasses sat askew on the man's face. He reached a trembling, bloodied hand up to adjust them.

The look he gave Ludwig was one of abject fear.

Ludwig's face mirrored his.

When the man realized this, he laughed. A laugh which turned into a cough and then a wince.

"...Well. I a-apologize if my music choice offends you..."

Ludwig's mouth fell open. "You're German?"

The man laughed and winced again. "Austrian, actually. But what does it matter, if the F-Führer has his way?"

"Let me see it," Ludwig said, indicating the wound.

The man flinched at the suggestion, his face closed and wary.

"Please."

Ludwig stepped in, crouching down. The man removed his hand. Ludwig lifted the shirt. No exit wound. It was as he feared. A pity the bullet found any inch of flesh to pierce at all.

Ludwig felt the color drain from his face as the man pressed his hand to the wound. In his shirt pocket was a gauze bandage. Ludwig covered the pocket with his hand, as if the man knew what was in there.

The man followed his movements, mistrust evident in his eyes.

"Why are you here?" Ludwig asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" the man said. His face had turned the sickly color of tallow. "A-are you going to f-finish the job?"

Up until then, Ludwig had been unsure of what, exactly, he was going to do. The idea that he could - possibly _could_ \- be seen as a killer to another human being never once crossed his mind until that exact moment. It was a word he never would have ever applied to himself. He was not a killer. He was not a murderer. He was just a clerk. A stupid, stupid clerk. A boy, really...

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the bandage. He dressed the wound as best he could, wishing he had something for the pain.

He sat back on his heels and took out a cigarette. The drying blood turned the color of rust on his hands.

"...May I have one of those?" the man asked.

Ludwig nodded and handed over his pack and a box of matches.

The man exhaled slowly. "Thank you." He pushed his glasses up his nose. His hand looked dark brown in the dim light. "I don't even smoke."

"You need a hospital."

"I'll take my chances," the man said, arching a dubious brow. He brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. Even in the dim light, Ludwig could see the perspiration.

"What's your name?"

The man cast a slanted glance down at Ludwig. "...I think it would be best, for both our sakes, if I keep that to myself."

"Then, at least tell me what you're doing here. In Paris."

"...Why?"

Ludwig shrugged. "I don't know. I-I feel...well, I...I..." His eyes were beginning to sting. And not because of the smoke.

"I was studying. At the C-Conservatoire."

Ludwig sniffed and nodded.

"After the...the Anschluss, my p-parents thought it best if I stayed here." The man clutched his side. He sunk to one side, elbow pressing a dissonant chord. "It's been...over a year without - I mean I-I haven't..."

The man's eyes widened behind his spectacles. He tossed his cigarette onto the floor and crushed it under a heavy foot. He signaled for another. Ludwig put it between his lips and lit it.

"Maybe I could do something...write to them, or..."

The man let out a bark of a laugh. His head rolled back. Ludwig made to stand but was stayed when the man spoke again. "You are either very ignorant...or very innocent. And I hope it's the latter."

The man picked his head up and tried to smile - a smile that became a grimace.

"...I still say you need a hospital," Ludwig muttered.

The man shook his head. "...No good," he grit out.

They sat and smoked a few silent moments. The man's face had become so pale, his skin seemed almost translucent.

"I heard you. Back in the summer, I mean," Ludwig said. "I was lost and...why were you playing piano? After curfew?"

"The night...should never be without music. It is all I have. Your kind has t-taken everything else."

"Let me take you to a doctor. Please. I can carry you - "

The man shook his head again.

Ludwig began to protest, but the man hushed him.

"Listen!" his said in a hoarse whisper, his body taut with dread.

In the distance, Ludwig heard a sound. The lone yap of a little dog barking. Behind that, there came another. Borne on the night's still, cold air. The unmistakable scrape of boot heels against stone.

The man drew himself closer. Sweat beaded across his forehead. "Who knew the hounds of hell would have such a small bark? You must go."

"They might not be coming for you," Ludwig said, his eyes wide and urgent.

"Who else would they be? Save yourself!"

"I'm not leaving you -"

"Don't be an idiot! You've done enough for me."

"If they come, I'll...th-they'll listen to me. They've got to listen - "

The man clutched his side tighter and lurched forward. Ludwig rushed to help him back up as the sound of footsteps drew level with the attic room.

"Hands!" a stern voice ordered.

Ludwig spun around to find two rifles trained on them from the doorway. The man raised two shaking palms into the air, swaying slightly on the piano bench. Ludwig followed suit. From the brassards on the sleeves and the gorgets around the neck, Ludwig knew these men were Feldgendarmerie. Military police. His stomach sank to the floor.

One of them lowered his rifle and stepped forward, scrutinizing the attic, then Ludwig.

"Papers," he demanded.

Ludwig thrust a hand into a shirt pocket and produced his identification.

"And you," the Feldgendarme said, nodding at the man on the bench.

The man didn't move.

The Feldgendarme's mouth twisted into a nasty frown. "On your feet!" In one swift motion, he yanked the man up.

The man yelped in pain.

"Stop!" Ludwig hissed. "He's injured!"

"You hold your tongue!"

Ludwig clenched his jaw tight. He cast a sideways glance at the man. His face and shirt were drenched in sweat despite the chill air.

A new set of footsteps could be heard just beyond the threshold. The two Feldgendarmes snapped to attention as their lieutenant entered the room.

"Would someone care to explain why," the lieutenant said, "I am being woken by phone calls about gunshots damn near midnight on Christmas Eve?"

He took the papers from the Feldgendarme, giving Ludwig and the man an appraising glance as he looked everything over.

"You're a ways away from your command post, Private Beilschmidt. Thinking of deserting?"

"N-no, Herr Leutnant. I was...taking a walk."

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. "...A walk?"

"Yes, sir. I..." Ludwig glanced at the man beside him. He seemed barely able to stand. "I heard piano playing, Herr Leutnant," Ludwig finished all in one breath. His eyes darted once more to the side.

"You did?" the lieutenant said, following Ludwig's eyes. "After curfew?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what about you?" the lieutenant said, addressing the man beside Ludwig. "I take it _you_ were the one breaking curfew. Where are your papers?"

The man's gaze was locked on the floor.

"P-please, sir," Ludwig said, "he's injured."

The lieutenant's brow furrowed a moment before he noticed the stain on the man's shirt.

"I...shot him, sir."

The lieutenant approached. A gloved hand reached out, snatching up the man's face. The man's breathing quickened.

The lieutenant twisted his face this way and that, scrutinizing every angle. His mouth turned down in disgust. He lifted the man's shirt to look at the wound.

"Waste of a bandage, Beilschmidt. Why you even bothered patching this piece of shit up is beyond me."

"S-sir?"

"He's a Jew," the lieutenant said, examining his glove as if he'd touched excrement. He nodded at the waiting Feldgendarmes. In moments they had the man's hands cuffed behind his back.

"He doesn't have much longer. I could shoot him, but...shame to waste any more materiel on him. We should just leave him here to rot, but the stench would be unbearable," the lieutenant sneered. "As for you, Beilschmidt...I shall have a hell of a time making excuses as to why you were found so far from your post. But, seeing as how you helped apprehend a Jew in hiding, I'm sure this infraction will be overlooked. I will wire your commander once we've returned. Merry Christmas."

He nodded once more to his men. They started to leave.

"He's not a Jew!" The words flew from Ludwig's mouth before he even realized he'd said them.

Confusion.

He _had_ to make them understand...

"He's not a Jew," Ludwig repeated. "He's...he's German! Just - let him speak! Let him explain - please! Tell them! Tell them you're not a Jew!"

The lieutenant turned. "Be careful, Beilschmidt. You are _this_ close to being brought in as an accomplice! There are no Germans in Paris except _us_. Everyone else is either a traitor or worse. It's time you learned that, boy."

The lieutenant and his men left with their prisoner.

Footsteps.

Footsteps on the landing.

Footsteps down the stairs.

And Ludwig realized he had not even said -

A gunshot.

\- he was sorry.

Ludwig fell to his knees, ears ringing in the empty attic room.

Paris was supposed to have been an easy posting.

The night was still.

.

.

.

 ** _A/N_** _Fun?fact: In WW2, the gorget worn by the Feldgendarmerie earned them the nickname_ _"_ _Kettenhunde_ _" – "_ _chained dogs._ _"_ _Just, y_ _'_ _know, something to keep in mind with regards to Roderich_ _'_ _s comment about the hounds of hell._

 _In my head, Roderich plays Mendelssohn_ _'_ _s Songs without Words Op. 102, numbers 1 & 4._

 _Thank you all for reading, and I do apologize if I_ _'_ _ve made anyone cry._ _That was not my intention o_O_


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